


A Post on John Watson's Blog by Sherlock Holmes

by firewordsparkler



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John Watson's Blog, M/M, Red Pants, daft!Sherlock, fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic, red pants fanfic challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewordsparkler/pseuds/firewordsparkler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John decides to allow Sherlock to write a blog post riddle to cure his boredom. This is what Sherlock comes up with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Post on John Watson's Blog by Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> For the Red Pants Challenge over at the fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic tumblr.
> 
> Also, my first post on AO3 and my first (published) Sherlock fanfic. Please review!

  
This was not my idea. John has forced this upon me to cure me of my boredom, and I shall do my best to entertain myself and you all, readers of John Watson’s “blog.” [correct term: weblog] Below is a story about a particular artifact. Your job is to guess what the artifact is using the various and rather obvious context clues I have provided. And yes, it is a true story. I only work with facts.  
It had been three months, 8 days, and 17 hours after I came back to John when I discovered them. Honestly, I don’t know what took me so long. Perhaps John and his presence in my daily routine, and, perhaps, having a daily routine, once again have been distracting me more than I thought. [Must file that under Unnecessary Thoughts.] But I discovered them in a most unfortunate manner, I was doing laundry. Laundry of all the things John could force me to do. The foulest, most mundane of household tasks, as punishment for forgetting to let him know that there was a triple homicide. Honestly, I didn’t deserve any sort of punishment. I only failed to let him know about it was because he had come home from a forty-eight hour shift just that evening and it was three in the morning. He should be thanking me that I didn’t wake him when I could have. Plus, the case was simple anyway; the attacker used the same, out of date knife to stab the victims, all blonde females, and all three killings were on his way home. Boring. Obviously, it was a personal vendetta against an ex-girlfriend who thought he needed therapy. If it was an interesting case I would have at least texted him.

John says that in order for me to write a proper “blog” [correct term: weblog] entry, I must focus on the story at hand. He also says that I will be sued by Scotland Yard if I provide details for cases yet untried and published. “That will take weeks,” I say. “And that’s why I write the blog,” he says.  
But yes, I discovered them while folding John’s clothes, hanging out of one of his trouser pockets, the black trousers, left front pocket, (John says these details are unnecessary, I say, “Every detail is necessary until deemed irrelevant.” John also says I can’t quote myself pretentiously. He is wrong.) and found myself confused for a moment. Despite not being around for three years, I knew John had not changed so drastically that he would feel a need to change this about himself. According to modern psychology, the human personality takes root at about fourteen years of age, and does not change much, unless something drastic or traumatizing occ- _oh_.

 _Afghanistan_.

His good friend Jocelyn? Jaclyn? Jamie. [File under John, Sentiment folder.] had died a week prior, and John went to her funeral the day before. He must have acquired it after the funeral, and, as human sentiment would suggest, held it with him as he cried himself to sleep. Although John is not the crying sort; he’s more of the stoic glaring-at-the-ceiling-until-the-ceiling-loses type. So clearly, he stoically glared at the ceiling with the item in hand until his eyelids covered his eyes and he drifted into the subconscious. A subconscious which, obviously, caused nightmares, seeing as he spent all day thinking about the traumatizing events that had occurred while he was off invading Middle-Eastern countries.

But how did he acquire it? Obviously, it was at or after the funeral, likely after. Society frowns upon people giving objects such as this in public. Perhaps a former army mate of his gave it to him? But it was too new to have been used by anyone more than once, the elastic was not worn down at all. So worn once, possibly twice, by someone John’s size, judging by the label. Why would someone have given these to John of all people, who would never even think to wear these, I had no idea. Through process of elimination, I realized that my best option would be to question the dubious owner himself.

“John?”

“Hmfglarb”

“John.”

“John. Wake up.”

“Sherlock! It’s three am! What could you possibly need at three am?”

“…I have a question.”

John humphed again and sat up, rubbing his eyes, obviously expecting to get up for a case. “What is it, then?”

“It’s regarding these.” I held up the offending object.

“What?” John grabbed it from my hand, shocked. “Where did you find these?”

“Laundry.”

“What? Oh gods, Sherlock, you’re doing the laundry now?

“Well, I’ve already done laundry. All that’s left is the folding.”

“Yes, I’d deduced.”

A cricket sounded, despite us being in the middle of one of the largest metropolises in the world. [Note: study insect survival rate in large cities, could be useful to the Mehta case]

“So who’s is it?” I finally asked.

“Mine, obviously. You woke me up to discuss this? Of all the things, Sherlock.”

“They’re…yours.”

“Yes.”

“Not a former lover’s from the army, then?”

“Sherlock, I realize you come up with incredible assumptions for a living, but a former lover from the army? Have you gone delusional with your insomnia?”

“Assumptions?” I asked, disgusted that he would ever accuse me of such a thing. “I never assume. I always know.”

“Then why are you asking me?”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“Well, I’m not answering your nightly delusions. Just finish the laundry and let me sleep,” John finally said before sandwiching his head between the pillow and the mattress.

“Your mates did always say that you were Three-Continents Watson.”

“…”

“John?”

“…’

“John?”

“…”

“John?”

John finally took his head out from under the pillow and glared at me. “Sherlock, if you do not let me get my eight hours of sleep, I will call Mycroft.”

I left the room.

Surely, I was missing something. There’s always something. But I couldn’t ask John now, not when he’s in a mood. But was the value of this? What had motivated John to get them?

  
_Ah_.

  
_Sentiment_.

Clearly, there was something sentimental about the item I was holding. Was the alarming color someone’s favorite? Did someone he know have a fondness for these articles? Well, John wasn’t going to answer my questions today (and he calls me rude), so I went to bed, my mind full of John and the mystery surrounding the particular article of clothing.

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of tea and toast. Immediately, I went to the kitchen to gain some sustenance (and John tells me I don’t eat) and perhaps confront John about the item.  
Upon my entrance into the kitchen, John spoke as he turned around. “If you think you’re getting any of my tea after what you did last night, you’re wrong. And you placed fingers in the spare kettle. So you have to clean it and –.” He burst out laughing. This was unusual. When John Watson is in a specific mood, it takes a lot to get him out of it. Usually, it’s a case, although he occasionally loses his temper when I “open my trap,” as he likes to say. But laughter? This was new.

Before I could even ask what was so hilarious, he pointed at me. Specifically, at my body. I looked down. Ah. I was only in my pants. Ones that happened to have a picture of a bee. But he knew of my plans of beekeeping when I eventually retire. It’s only obvious that I indulge in my obsession. So what was so funny? Ah.  
Unattractiveness. I’ve long known that I am not of the typically handsome genre of male. Nothing about me is typical. But I’ve very seldom been told that I’m unattractive. However, as the cliché goes, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” and John, as the beholder, had every right to judge me based on my looks. Apparently, I look bad in pants. [File under: John, dislikes]  
Didn’t mean he had to laugh.

I knew I’d changed my appearance when I came back, but I was every bit as fit as I used to be, not skinny anymore. And I still caught John staring at me when I wore my purple shirt. My body does not warrant a laugh.

Anyway, by now John had stopped laughing, and went back to pouring the tea for himself. He got out another cup for me, despite his prior complaints. Perhaps he felt bad for laughing. But then John turned back around and scanned me over, and raised an eyebrow. Dilated pupils, slight shortness of breath, aroused.  
So much for my unattractiveness.

John says that the story is getting away from me, and that I need to focus on one thing at a time, focus on what’s relevant. That the entire last passage was completely useless and should be deleted. [Note to self: delete any references of Doctor Who, especially those about cybermen]

So he made us tea, and sat at the table and read the news. Usual. I scrutinized him for any other change in his behavior. He seemed to have gotten over my confrontation from the night before. (John says it wasn’t a confrontation as much as it was a disturbance.) However, he still had not answered any of my questions. He was successfully evading the subject, the elephant in the room, so to speak, but not for long.

“So about last night-“

John set down his newspaper and attempted stared me down. He failed, but I received the message anyway. He didn’t want to talk about it. But I ignored the message.

“Why do you own such things?”

“…” John was drinking his tea.

“Do you wear them?”

“…” John rolled his eyes and was still sipping at his tea.

“Are you done with that tea?” There wasn’t any indication that John had swallowed in the last thirty seconds, he was pretending.

Finally, he set down his tea and spoke, “What the hell do you want Sherlock? Just leave my belongings alone and you won’t have to bother with any of this.”

“But obviously, as you forced me to do your laundry, I mustn’t leave your things alone. And one must wonder, how does someone come about these things?”

“Why do you care?”

I paused, shocked that he would question such a thing. “I don’t care,” I replied. “I just want to know what caused this purchase that was so out of character for you?”

“Not everyone always fits into your little boxes, Sherlock. People are complex. They have different motivations for different things. Maybe someone bought something one day just because they felt like it!” John was standing now, breathing hard.

“John, sit down.”

“Why? You don’t care.” So he was going for petulant child now. Funny, I thought that was always my role.

I rolled my eyes. “Of course I care, John. Honestly, have you forgotten what sarcasm is in my absence?”

He stormed away. But, obviously, for whatever reason, John was in pain. The emotional kind. Ugh. I followed him, because it appears that that’s what friends do, especially after a year-long absence, but he locked the door. Once again: Captain John Watson, MD, Petulant Child.

Easily, I picked the lock and opened the door, knocking as I came in, as decorum stated.

“What on earth could you possibly want, Sherlock?” This was bad. John was lying on the bed, sounding fatigued. And it was morning after a good night’s rest. That meant only one thing: he was exasperated to the point of giving up on me. Nevertheless, I pushed forward.

“I just want to know what on earth your motivation was for having that.”

He rolled over so that he was facing the window instead of the ceiling. “It was an impulse purchase. That’s it. Nothing more to it.”

“Then why were you avoiding the subject so ostentatiously?”

He rolled to face me. “Ostentatious?! Ostentatious is your current outfit, or lack thereof. Me not wanting to answer every probing question about my life is not ostentatious.”

“You’re avoiding the subject again.”

He faced the ceiling again. “You were never meant to see those. After you…died…I wanted to become a new person; being without you was that painful.”

So there it was. Sentiment. I kept silent, though, and let him continue.

“It wasn’t anything that melodramatic, honestly, I just wanted you and everything I did with you out of my memory. So I bought those, among other things. I stopped wearing jumpers, opting for jackets instead. I started swearing on honey, in place of jam. I even stopped watching Doctor Who.”

“What? You, of all people, stopped watching Doctor Who?” I was shocked. The jumpers and the jam were replaceable, but in John’s life, nothing could replace that awful science-fiction show.

John sighed. “Yeah, I stopped watching. Wasn’t the same without your comments on how terrible the graphics team was and how out-of-character the companions were in every other episode. I missed that too much.”

“Oh,” was all I could say.

“Yeah, oh,” echoed John. “And then you came swooping back into my life again, and all of a sudden, everything could be back to normal. I could forget that I ever missed you, because I had you again. So yeah, you weren’t supposed to see those, just like you’re not supposed to know about the honey and jackets. I was a different person when you left. And now everything can be back to normal. So can we just forget about it?” He finally looked at me.

I was stunned. Had John really held that much sentiment for me all that time? Had he really been that lost without me? After a few minutes, I could finally speak. “No.”

“What?”

“I said ‘no,’ John, do keep up.”

“Yes, I know you said ‘no,’ but why, exactly?”

“Do you really expect me to forget the only time I was truly a part of someone else’s life? How drastically one person can change another person? No, of course not! This could help everything. From cases to my relationship with you to idiots like Anderson! Don’t you understand, John, you have opened up a new psychological state to be observed!”

“Wait, hang on a tick, your relationship with me?” He was sitting up now, on the edge of his bed.

“Well, of course, John. Now that I really know how much you care for me, I can finally do this!” And I grabbed his head and kissed “the living daylights” out of John (John’s words, not mine).  
When I finally let go of him, I walked straight out of the room and picked up the article which had caused such drama in 221B. Then, I went straight back to John’s room and told him, “Wear these.” He complied, and we kissed again.

John says I’m not allowed to say more than that.

I suppose I should tell you what the thing was, exactly, as John tells me that if I am to “blog” [correct term: web log] about these events, I must be as clear as possible. Honestly, when am I not clear? You should have deduced it by now, although you are readers of John’s daily musings. I should not assume you to be everyday Teslas. But fine, it was a pair of red pants, obviously. John is much more of a boxer person. If you hadn’t at least guessed by now, reader, you are doomed to never learn the art of deduction, and I weep for the spawn you will (hopefully never) inevitably reap. Also, if you haven’t already deduced (which I doubt you have), John and I are embarking on a romantic endeavor, and he thought this would be a “clever” way to “come out.” (It wasn’t, but please don’t break John’s delusion that it was.)  
John says that that was rude. He says that I should apologize to anyone I might have offended. I don’t doubt that.


End file.
